The Passport Photographer who tried to make the Most of His Job
A newly hired passport photographer
soon grew tired of telling people “Look straight ahead” before taking their
photo. He didn’t like their vacant expressions, and he felt chained by the
unimaginative limits placed on his compositions. So he quit his job after lunch
and set up his own studio across the street, again strictly devoted to passport
photos—but these photos would capture the “true essence” of his customers.
He
was excited to get started.
At first, he tried to loosen up his
“would-be works of art.” He’d start with, “Okay, I’m going to say a word, and
you should let your face express that word.” Most of his customers left
immediately, which was the wisest course of action.
Those who stayed received their first
word: “Sober.”
“Good, good,” said the passport photographer, “that’s pretty sober. Now . . . try a little drunk.” He laughed at his own play on words. His customers
were only slightly annoyed at this point.
“Now, let’s try frustrated. You can’t remember the end
of The Cat in the Hat, and you’re
wondering whether a brain tumor might be pressing on the long-term memory
centers of your brain . . ."
At first, some of his customers
enjoyed playing along, especially the whimsical millennials.
“Now . . . happy,” said the passport photographer. He took the picture. “Now, happy but with a twinge of anxiety—as if
you just bought a brand new gas stove and you love it but now you’re wondering
whether the pilot light might accidentally go out and blow up your apartment .
. . “
After a few minutes, his customers
questioned the need for so many photos. After all, they just needed a passport
photo. The passport photographer assured them the process would be over in a minute and
they’d be happy with the results—perhaps life-changing results.
“Let’s keep going,” said the passport photographer. “Now let’s try . . . elated
bordering on euphoric, as though you’re
about to get married to the greatest guy in the world and you’re looking
forward to a new life together, yet tinged with a lingering doubt that your soon-to-be betrothed is still suffering
from a long-term Meth addiction, he's also lackadaisical about taking his Schizophrenia medication and he may still be messing around with his third
cousin.”
The passport photographer smiled. He was
seeing results. “Now let’s lighten things up a bit. Let’s try thoughtful mixed with a touch of . . . horror. You’re thinking about your
husband out in his fish house, and you’re wondering whether it’s not getting a
little too warm to be out on the lake and what if he sets his stove on high and
the floor gets too hot and maybe it catches fire and maybe the ice gives way
and your husband and his fish house and the three crappies he caught earlier
all plunge into the icy depths and no one finds them until the following May.”
Sometimes the passport photographer had to
dish out boxes of Kleenex, but it was all worth it.
Eventually, despite having to hold
his customers down in their chairs, the passport photographer persisted in “capturing
the raw emotion of their essential being,” and continued.
“Think carefully now,” he said. “Think
. . . confident . . . forward-thinking . . . success-oriented, yet regretful, bordering on depressed, almost . . . pathologically unhinged, as if you’ve
chosen the profession of your dreams but now you wonder whether you really like
it after all, and maybe you really did want to be an art historian, and besides
you’re not so sure about your co-workers—they seem to be conspiring against you—and
you’re getting older, too old for a major career change or a return to graduate
school, and that novel you’ve been tinkering with never seems to go anywhere,
and your parents are asking you why they don’t have any grandchildren, and your
husband is coming home late on too many nights, and he always hides his cell
phone, and your neighbors stopped waving at you months ago, and even the
produce manager, who used to shine apples and flirt with you, now no longer
seems interested, and he’s not even good looking, and you’re sleepless at night
because the owl in the tree outside your window seems to be hooting just for
your benefit and that buzzing in your ears—is it an aneurysm about to burst?--and
the new gas stove that you really like is maybe leaking a little bit—is that
gas you smell?—and nobody seems to notice, nobody seems to care, and nobody
invites you to parties any more, and, according to your service plan, you have
way more minutes left on your phone than you could possibly ever need and why
doesn’t anyone ever call you anymore?”
The passport photographer was elated by the
results. He had broken down his passport customers to quivering masses of raw,
exposed emotion.
“Now,” he finished, “imagine a little puppy dropped from a
speeding car in the middle of a highway. An 18-wheeler is barreling straight
for it . . ."
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